


Your Bride to Be, So Full of Life and Mischief

by agentmargaretcarter



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: I mean Helene and Anatole are only mentioned/ have some actions, Insert, One-Shot, The Ball, also im giving Natasha the credit she deserves with the compliments, but I'm tagging them anyway, in my house, no Natasha haters, pierre's anxiety, pierretasha, pining?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 09:17:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11825691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentmargaretcarter/pseuds/agentmargaretcarter
Summary: Why did he say that? I feel like there was a missed opportunity for Pierre to dance with Natasha at the costume tournament that's at his house. So this is essentially a scene that could have taken place in the ball between dances with Anatole, before the declarations of love on his part.





	Your Bride to Be, So Full of Life and Mischief

Pierre was never the life of the party, but that was one of the few perks of being married to Helene. She could entertain as much as a household of their affluence required, and he could hole himself up in his study. They called him eccentric for his avoidance, but it was better than potential social embarrassment that he felt accompanied every conversation he had.

This evening, however, he felt himself looking at the costume Helene had picked for him. He'd been told Countess Rostova would attend this evening, and it had been so long since he had last seen her, and anyway he should get to know her better if she's to be his closest friend’s wife. With Andrey speaking so highly of her, and with the brief meetings he'd had with Natalia previously, Pierre couldn't help but feel some affection for her. She would probably be quite alone this evening. He understood that.

The costume was that of a polar bear, which Pierre supposed was meant to be some kind of jab at him. He donned it and stepped out of his bedroom. He walked down the hall and noticed that his hands were shaking. He couldn't remember the last time, if ever, he had attended a ball willingly, and when he reached the stairs, he had to grip the railing and will himself to take each step. 

Apparently, the majority of men had selected bear costumes as well, but Pierre was the only non-grizzly. He saw his wife across the room, stepping away from her brother, who looked quite nervous while dressed as an angel (Maybe. He wore a white coat, and the gold of his hair might as well be a halo. Pierre did not think it was a fitting costume.). Anatole waited at the door, rocking back and forth on his heels. 

“Pierre!” shouted a deep and beautiful voice that he knew could only belong to

“Marya!” He whirled around to find his friend, with a bit of bunched up dress in her right hand and a champagne glass in the other, jogging lightly toward him. She was dressed as a Spanish matador, though with a skirt instead of pants.

She dropped her dress and threw an arm around him. Her embrace was surprisingly tight. “Good to see you old friend! Sometimes I swear you died and Helene is just keeping up pretenses.”

“I'm afraid she hasn't gotten rid of me yet,” replied Pierre. “Would you give me the honor of this dance?”

“Of course.” Then he took her hand and led her to the dance floor. The first waltz began.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Natalia enter. She wore white, and, unlike Anatole, she actually looked like an angel. The most graceful and wonderful angel Pierre had ever seen. Anatole immediately stopped fidgeting and offered her his hand, which she accepted with some hesitancy as he whisked her off to the dance floor. 

Marya noticed where Pierre’s eyes went. “Yes, I'll admit I was nervous when I learned it was Helene who invited her, because though I adore her, she has a nasty habit of meddling.” Upon noticing the worry in his eyes, she said, “But Pierre, I know my Natasha. I know how clever she is, and how deeply she loves Prince Andrey. She could never throw it away for your ridiculous brother-in-law.”

“He is ridiculous, isn't he?” Pierre smiled, and his worries about his friend’s heart melted away. He and Marya made pleasant conversation as they danced, catching up on each other's lives.

After the dance, she walked him over to Natalia and Anatole. Upon noticing Anatole’s hand still on the young woman’s waist, and it hanging so low to almost the point of impropriety, Marya raised her voice with that calm assertiveness and simply said, “Natasha.”

The girl turned to her godmother and Anatole’s hand slipped off of her waist, clearly taking Marya’s meaning.

“You remember Pierre Bezukhov.”

“Certainly. Good to see you.” Natalia curtsied deeply.

“And you as well, Countess,” Pierre replied, bowing.

“Please, call me Natasha.” The warmth in her voice instantly touched Pierre, and his smile lost its usual strain and melted into genuineness. She was incredibly charming.

“Well then, Natasha, might I steal you from my brother-in-law for this next dance?”

She glanced at Anatole and hesitated, and Pierre briefly wondered if he seemed like a crazy or predatory old man, but then she beamed at him and said, “I would be delighted to dance with you.”

He offered his arm, and she hooked hers through. When they took their positions for the dance, he made sure to use the lightest touch he could manage; Natasha was so small compared to him that Pierre worried he might accidentally crush her somehow. 

When he danced, Pierre usually stuck with the predetermined steps and pretended as though he were leading. It was no different with Natasha, but she seemed to be dancing differently. She was following, and doing the steps to the song, but somehow made the dance more elegant and unique. Every step she took was as though she were dancing on air. She was like the wisp of a dandelion twirling through the wind, a swan twirling and diving through the air, an angel descending to earth to grace everyone with her presence.

Enchanted by Natasha, Pierre forgot that you were supposed to speak when you danced. “How are you this evening?” 

“I'm quite well. Your home is absolutely lovely, and your wife and Anatole have been so hospitable. I'll admit, I'm shocked, though pleased, to see you this evening.” Her smile was absolutely enchanting, and though a blush crept up her neck, Pierre was sure he was the redder of the two.

“Oh?” Was he so easy to read? Also, she was pleased to see him?

“Well, Andrey–” His best friend would explain such a thing, of course, to his future wife. _Andrey’s_ future wife, Pierre reminded himself. “–expressed that you were not the most social, but when you get to know someone, you become their dearest friend. He told me that if I truly needed someone in Moscow, I should come to you.” Her lips pressed into a flat line, and tears welled up in her eyes. In that moment he wanted to envelop her in his arms, to let her bury her face in his chest and to let herself feel, to miss Andrey and to hurt for her hostile treatment in Moscow. Maybe he'd stroke her hair, and he could hold her until she calmed down.

“I miss him too,” said Pierre. She looked shocked at this, faltering the dance. Her widened eyes met his, and there was something more, a different kind of pain and worry behind her eyes, but that something more lasted a mere second, and Natasha returned to her more jovial self. She danced even more enthusiastically as though to distract herself. He understood.

As they talked and danced, he discovered that he understood Natasha more and more. He could tell that she was more than just a silly young girl, more than just the most beautiful face in Moscow. She was a dreamer, but more than that; she had the capability to bring her dreams to fruition, so full of life and hope. She made him laugh, she made him feel.

Andrey is a lucky man.

And he told her that last statement, hiding his own sentiments. 

“Very lucky, for he has you. I’m not worth dres– pardon me, I'd rather not speak on that which I was about to.” 

Struck and flattered as he was by the first part of her statement, he was too confused by and curious about the latter half. He decided it would be unfair to press her for more, so he simply repaid the compliment. “I'm sure you're worth everything, dear Natasha.” He wondered if a term of affection was too far for their relationship, and he knew the anxiety of his potential faux pas would haunt him the rest of the evening, but he thought he could keep it under wraps.

He had worried about him worrying in the split second before Natasha’s smile brightened. All anxiety melted away. “Pierre, you're too kind to me.”

He thought the words, “As everyone should be,” but he didn't want to turn this into an uncomfortable showering of compliments. He didn't want her to think that he was trying to woo her, no matter how much he meant it. It shouldn't mean so much, however, because she isn't his to love (though no person is truly belonging to any other), and he could accept that.

He thought so at least. 

The song ended, and Anatole of course cut back in. His wife took his arm as her brother took his partner.

“You know how this goes,” Helene whispered. “Just continue for a few more hours.” The word “hours” sounded like “centuries” to Pierre, but she was right. For this being his first night in the public eye in ages, Pierre could not neglect the other social duties required of the evening, and therefore, could not protest. 

As the more handsome gentleman pulled her away, Natasha looked back over her shoulder at Pierre. Pierre waved meekly, and she returned the wave enthusiastically.

 

That night, when he passed out pleasantly drunk in his bed, he dreamt for the first time in years. He dreamt of the kind and wonderful Countess Rostova. Of Natasha. The next day, his wife would remark that the smile on his face while he slept made him look ridiculous.


End file.
